MLCD Chapter 4.5

The guards tried to drag him away. He resisted. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to go back to the solitary cell. He could have if they told him to go back. If they told him to live without taking even one step out, he could have done so for his entire life. As long as Shavonne was there. As long as Shavonne was there, he could have done it forever.

But not now. He couldn’t let go of Shavonne, who was looking coldly at him, saying he had never loved him. He couldn’t let Shavonne leave.

However, at that moment, a guard smothered his face with a towel that smelled acrid. He twisted his body and resisted, but it was useless. Gradually, he couldn’t feel anything at all. His resistance was futile in the face of the anesthetic. He felt his body collapse. Perhaps it was his mind that was collapsing.

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His consciousness flickered. Like when he had inhaled the hazy smoke, his consciousness faded, came back, faded, repeatedly. In the last moment of consciousness, he mustered all his strength to look up at Shavonne. But Shavonne was not looking down at him. He had already turned his back and was walking away into the distance.

As he watched the receding back, his consciousness soon faded. Darkness covered his eyes.

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***

He saw the ceiling.

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The ceiling was all gray. Due to being built with unrefined stones, the surface was particularly bumpy. At times, the bumps looked not like bulges but like thousands, tens of thousands of writhing insects. It was like that now too. The incandescent light bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling casted light and shadow over the swarm of insects.

Once, he asked if that was the sun. When he asked, the man shook his head and explained, ‘No, Lewellyn. The sun is a much bigger, warmer, and more dazzling light.’ A light much bigger, warmer, and more dazzling than the incandescent light.

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He stared blankly at the man. The question ‘Is it you?’ rose to the tip of his tongue. The man, about to continue reading the book, noticed his gaze. He looked up and met his eyes, then wrinkled his nose and smiled. And then…

At that moment, the image of the man’s back walking away came to mind. His consciousness, wandering through memories, stopped. The man was no longer by his side. The man had left.

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Memories flooded into his empty mind. The sound of rain. And amidst the sound of rain, the man’s resolute voice echoing.

― Never. Not even once.

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He got up.

He had been sleeping on the bare floor of the solitary cell. There was no blanket. Not only was there no blanket, but there were also no clothes, dishes, two towels, or the three or four old books. Except for the watch Shavonne had given him, none of the luggage Shavonne had brought remained.

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Shavonne wasn’t there either.

Shavonne.

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Drip, like a drop of blood falling onto water, that name fell into his mind. Drip, drip. It spread. Everything turned bright red.

Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne. Shavonne.

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I must find Shavonne. Shavonne can’t be gone. He can’t be gone…

He stood up. No, he tried to stand up. But the next moment, unable to control his body, he collapsed heavily onto the floor. His whole body was a mess due to the beating he had taken while unconscious. His shoulders, waist, arms…, every part was in bad shape, but the worst was his right leg. It throbbed so much that he couldn’t even put strength into it.

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He managed to raise his body by leaning on the ventilation pipe. Even just that was enough to make his face turn pale and sweat pour down like rain. Dragging his limping leg, he headed towards the iron door.

He grabbed the door handle. The cold door handle sucked in his hand.

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He pushed. It didn’t budge.

He pulled. It didn’t budge.

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Thud. His forehead fell and hit the iron door. He didn’t know what ‘locked up’ meant. He didn’t understand even when Shavonne once said, ‘Damn it. If you’re going to be like this, you should have said ‘I’ll lock you up here’ instead of asking me to live with you.’

But not now. He knew exactly what ‘locked up’ meant. ‘Locked up’ meant he couldn’t go to Shavonne. He was locked up. In a solitary cell not even eight steps wide or long. In a place without Shavonne.

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Thud, thud, thud. He repeatedly hit his forehead. His forehead split and blood flowed. It flowed down his nose and cheeks, breaking at the tip of his chin. His vision turned completely red with the blood clinging to his eyelashes. Ignoring this, he hit, hit, and hit again.

It was then that he heard a sound. He stopped hitting his forehead and raised his head. Some sound was coming from beyond the iron door. Some… footsteps. The moment he recognized the familiar footsteps, light suddenly returned to his hazy eyes.

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Shavonne.

― Are you awake?

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He hadn’t heard wrong. The voice coming from beyond the iron door was Shavonne’s. It was unmistakable.

He frantically wiped his face. The blood didn’t wipe off but instead smeared messily across his temples, cheekbones, and ears, but he didn’t notice.

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Nod, nod. Even knowing Shavonne couldn’t see him, he nodded his head repeatedly as best he could. Even knowing he couldn’t be heard, he repeated the answer like a parrot, “Mn. I’m awake. Yes.” Only one thought occupied his mind.

‘Shavonne came back. Shavonne came back to me, to me…’

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His heart was pounding. Feverish thoughts continued. Yes, Shavonne has been having cold and warm days lately. The Shavonne who said he has never loved me even once was having a cold day. The Shavonne who has now returned to me is having a warm day. So, so we are…

It was at that moment. The following voice shattered his thread of hope.

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― I hope you’re awake. I came to say goodbye.

Goodbye.

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His breath slowed, then quickened, then slowed again. He wanted to think he had heard wrong, but he knew he hadn’t. He looked up at the iron door, holding his breath. The image of Shavonne standing beyond the iron door, the cold face Shavonne might be making, appeared in his mind.

A chilling sensation struck the nape of his neck. A cool sensation ran down his spine, like when he saw Pharrell coming when he was smaller than a baton. He tried to step back. However, because he put his damaged right leg down first instead of his healthy left leg, he staggered and fell. It felt as if someone had pushed him.

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Shavonne, standing beyond the iron door, perhaps with a dry expression, perhaps with a cold expression, spoke to him as he sat helplessly on the floor looking up at the iron door. The sentence was pronounced.

― I’m leaving.

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He wished he didn’t know what the word ‘leaving’ meant. He wished he knew nothing. Not even the alphabet Shavonne had taught him, nor the words, nor O:).

Suddenly, he remembered the day Shavonne opened the iron door with the superintendent. ‘It’s a unique dog. If not now, you may never get to see it.’ ‘don’t care. I don’t have the guts to risk my life out of curiosity.’ The two voices coming from beyond the iron door confused his memory. He wanted to go back to that day. He wanted to meet Shavonne like back then. He didn’t want to part like this.

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― I’m going to Bunch.

After a pause, he explained.

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― Bunch is the capital of our country. The capital. Understand? The place where the royal palace is.

He wasn’t curious about what kind of place Bunch was. Even if it turned out that Bunch was Shavonne’s hometown, he wouldn’t have cared at all. What was important to him now was not Bunch, but whether Shavonne would come back or not.

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“Will you be back?”

He asked, even though he knew he wouldn’t be heard. He couldn’t help but ask. His voice was thin and trembling.

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― It’s a city that has everything. There’s a palace, and a parliament, and a cathedral. There’s a library, an art galleries, and a museum. There are lots of theaters… It’s different from this wasteland.”

“Will you come back?”

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Shavonne, will you come back? He asked again in a hoarse voice. He wished he would nod his head and say yes as his answer had a happy tone in it. Even though he couldn’t hear him, perhaps a miracle would happen and he would hear him.

― I’ll be happy there. To the point that I won’t need to dream of anything…

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“…Shavonne.”

― So…

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“Shavonne.”

Miracles might exist. Miracles that can save the dying and heal the incurable – perhaps they could even prevent the leaving. But miracles weren’t for him. Miracles were too busy to spare the time to look after him.

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― Don’t wait for me.

Transparent blood had begun to flow from his eyes. The transparent blood mixed with the red blood clinging to his eyelashes and ran down his cheeks. Whether it was red or transparent blood, it silently left a long stain.

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If only he could ask, if I bite the guards, will you come? If I’m hurt, will you come? If I die, will you come? If I… become a person, will you come?

― I won’t be back.

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After a silence, the sound of footsteps slowly fading away, one step, two steps, could be heard. His vision quickly blurred to the point he couldn’t see anything.

I slowly reached out my hand towards the iron door. Caressing, tracing, and stroking the iron door, as if touching Shavonne who was leaving beyond it. Even after the retreating footsteps had become completely inaudible, his hand didn’t stop.

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Eventually, it grew silent.¹

― Hello…?

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― Anyway, there’s no dog as handsome as you. I’m serious.

― You need to get better. Instead of just letting the words go in one ear and out the other, you need to listen carefully.

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― … ’round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words `DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters’… You’re not listening, are you?

― I know. I guess it’s because I like you.

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― Do you want to do a face?

There was a time when he thought Shavonne might not be as harmless as he had thought, but that he would harm him in a way he had never experienced before. He was right. Shavonne had been the most painful of all things that had ever happened to him..

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***

That day, Pharrell came to visit. Pharrell had a very displeased expression, and in a more nervous and violent voice than ever before, he said that he had to be disposed of. He also said that the penitentiary’s position was that they could no longer waste time, manpower, and budget on a dog that didn’t listen to a single word.

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Disposed of. Time, manpower, budget, penitentiary, position. Dog that didn’t listen to a word. As he slowly thought of the words that didn’t say anything to him, he looked up at Pharrell. Then he asked.

“What if I listen?”

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Pharrell, annoyed, swept his hair back, but then paused, frozen. “What?” His voice had a slight rise, as if he had heard unexpected words. He asked again.

“What if I listen well?”

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Pharrell looked down at him blankly. The sharp gaze had somehow rounded into a puzzled look. He asked one more time, clearly, so that Pharrell would not stupidly ask “What?” or just stare blankly without answering.

“Then can I become a person?”

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After a pause, Pharrell answered. “You can.” The voice contained an undisguisable laughter.

Pharrell proposed a deal. When asked what the deal was, Pharrell made him remember. ‘Give me Shavonne.’ ‘It’s not like I can’t do that. But there’s a condition. Will you do it?’ Then, just as he had promised to take care of Shavonne in the future as a condition for giving Shavonne to him, Pharrell called it a “deal”. Pharrell made a deal with him.

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The content was that if he made him a “person” who would be absolutely obedient to the warden of Lute Penitentiary, would not bite the guards, and would not do any unauthorized acts, Pharrell would make him a person. He accepted. He had no choice but to accept.

He kept the deal perfectly.

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Until 7 years later, when he learned the truth.

***

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7 years later.

A diamond-shaped chandelier showered the entire hall with dazzling light.

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Someone said that among the entire Bunch, only the Nor Hall of McEwan Castle could be compared to the Arun Hall of Arun Palace. When he heard it from Pharrell, he just thought it was an exaggeration of an anti-royalist, but seeing it in person, that wasn’t the case.

The McEwan Castle, built 400 years ago along the Wild River, was 5 stories tall, with 250 rooms, a library with 12,800 books, a simple yet beautiful prayer room, and above all, the huge Nor Hall, a party hall that fully deserved the adjective “huge”, was famous, and indeed, the reputation was not in vain.

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The hall overlooking the night sky had three long dining tables, all filled with sweet desserts. Among them, two desserts were drawing admiration from all the guests: the fondue and panna cotta made by Jules, a former court chef at the Bosch Palace.

“It’s a taste I’ve never tried, not even when invited to royal banquets,” “I’ve had fondue and panna cotta countless times, but I’ve never had anything this amazing. If possible, I’d like to meet Chef Jules. I wonder what kind of tongue and hands he has to create such an admirable taste…”

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With so much praise pouring out, he was also curious and took a little taste. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad either. If only it had some chopped onions in it, it would have been better.

Onions. The moment he thought of it, a face flashed in his mind. O:). Black hair, green eyes. His pale lips moved, ‘That’s it. Onions.’ He licked the caramel syrup on his fingertips and casually thought. Today is the ninety-seventh time, no, the ninety-eighth time? He counted on his fingers one by one.

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The first was when he was sleeping. The second was when he woke up. The third was when he looked out the window and saw the sun rising on the ridge. The fourth was when he drew the blackout curtains. The fifth was when the curtain fluttered in the wind and fell with a thud. The sixth was when he breathed. The sixth was when he washed the blood off his body. The seventh was when he dried his body with a towel. The eighth was when he was in pain. The ninth was when he was not in pain. The tenth was when he ate food or took the drugs Pharrell gave him. The eleventh was when he bit into food with his teeth or licked with his tongue, the twelfth was when his lips moved, the thirteenth was when he absent-mindedly bit the tender flesh in his mouth, and the fourteenth was… After counting them one by one, he realized that he had thought of the man’s face not ninety-eight times, but a hundred and thirty-five times today.

The man was in the chandelier and in the hall and on the dining table and in the fondue and panna cotta and in the sweet caramel syrup. The man was the world. He was everywhere in the world. So no matter when or where or what he did, he couldn’t avoid the man.

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In the beginning, when he didn’t know this fact, he tried to avoid him. He would crawl into the unused oven, go into the closet, or squeeze his body into a large empty barrel in the basement and close the lid… But in the black dust of the oven, in the darkness of the closet, on the grayish surface of the empty barrel, he saw the man. He saw the back of the man disappearing and vanishing forever.

He had seizures every time. Sometimes he would have a seizure and faint, and sometimes he wouldn’t. It was the Vice Warden who pulled him out of the oven, closet, and barrel. The Vice Warden would click his tongue and spit on his head, saying, “You’ve really become a complete idiot.”

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“Mr. Allium?”

Someone called him. He stopped remembering. The face of the Vice Warden spitting on him and the face of Pharrell sighing disappeared. The surprised face of the Vice Warden and the smirking face of Pharrell also disappeared. Stopping his memories was easy. But only on the condition that it was not a memory of the man.

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“Please call me Allium. Mr. Allium is too formal.”

He smiled brightly. His smile was radiant. Radiant smile, perfectly combed hair, a tailcoat, and a beautiful face. With just these, he could melt anyone’s guard down.

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As expected, a gentle glow appeared in Mrs. Fisher’s green eyes. Green. He recalled the man’s face. A vivid green color that was much brighter than the one Mrs. Fisher had flashed across his mind. This was the hundred and thirty-sixth time.

“I heard you were looking for Cutter(*the nickname for Regan Fisher, Mrs. Fisher’s husband). I heard you brought the brandy used at the Barbara Palace banquet…”

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Mrs. Fisher subtly changed the subject. Her eyes were demanding an explanation. He complied, still smiling.

“It’s the Kirsch(*Cherry liquor) from Martha Hill. It’s a rare delicacy that barely makes it into the palace once a year.”

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“It doesn’t seem very famous, does it? I’ve never even heard of Kirsch from Martha Hill.”

“It may not be famous outside of Barbara. The Kirsch from Martha Hill is special. The storage and drinking methods are completely different from ordinary Kirsch. If you don’t follow the rules, this delicacy that barely makes it into the palace once a year turns into a cheap, trashy Kirsch.”

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“Did you just call it trashy?”

“Huh? What does trashy mean?”

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It was all a lie. There was no Martha Hill in Barbara. Of course, cherries didn’t grow there and cherry liquor wasn’t produced there. Of course, the storage and drinking methods weren’t completely different from ordinary Kirsch, and it wasn’t a rare delicacy that barely made it into the palace once a year. This liquor never existed.

He was lucky. Mrs. Fisher seemed to believe his explanation. If she didn’t, he would have had to sneak into the guest room where Regan Fisher was staying in the middle of the night.

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Mrs. Fisher said she would guide him to the room where Regan Fisher was. “You’re so kind.” He smiled. Mrs. Fisher also smiled back. “Allium, you’re very kind too.” Kind, huh. Would she still think I was kind if she knew I have come to kill her husband? He was curious about it.

The light of the chandelier sparkled behind his back. It was a big, warm, and dazzling light. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. A black shadow like the nights at the penitentiary stretched out under his feet.

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Strychnine.

A poison extracted from the seeds and bark of its tree. A small amount could be used as a stimulant, but consuming more than that paralyzed the nerves and caused the muscles to contract, leading to an agonizing death by suffocation. It’s famous for being the “laughing death,” but contrary to popular belief, it didn’t actually make the victim laugh. The facial expression just changed to a smile as the muscles contracted.

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The lethal dose is 1-2 mg per 1 kg. According to what Pharrell taught him, Regan’s weight was 65 kg, so he prepared a generous amount of 150 mg, which would be more than enough. If the lethal dose was ingested, it would take no more than 2 minutes for him to die.

2 minutes.

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He checked his wristwatch. 11:29:12. In 2 minutes, Regan Fisher would be dead.

He seated in Regan Fisher’s chair, drank the Kirsch, and looked down at the writhing Regan Fisher in a businesslike manner. Regan Fisher seemed to be in severe pain and was unable to make any sound, twisting his body. His eyes were slowly widening and his lips were starting to curl upwards in an expression that seemed to form a smile as his muscles contracted.

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The Kirsch that Regan Fisher drank was not pure cherry liquor. It was a mixture of large amounts of cherry liquor (a cheap, trashy one sold on the streets) and a small amount of chloroform, in which 150 mg of strychnine was dissolved.

Regan Fisher was his target. Or more precisely, the target of Pharrell, the one who gave him orders. And even more precisely, the target of a faceless ‘higher-up person’ who could give orders even to Pharrell, the warden of the Lute Penitentiary.

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Over the past 7 years, he had eliminated eleven targets on the orders of Pharrell and the ‘higher-up’. He never asked why they had to be eliminated. He wasn’t particularly curious about it, and didn’t need to be. He had only overheard that they were secretly eliminating people who couldn’t be publicly punished for some reason.

Someone had plotted a rebellion, someone had been secretly eating away at the national treasury, and someone had created a secret organization to kidnap, rape, and kill international figures in order to disrupt diplomatic relations and ignite a war.

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In Regan Fisher’s case, the twelfth target, the reason was that he had sold military secrets to the enemy country. An insider had turned him in. The fact that thousands, even tens of thousands of civilians would be sacrificed in the event of war, according to the insider’s warning, had been ignored.

…10 seconds, 11 seconds, 12 seconds. As it became 11:31:12, he took his eyes off the watch and got up from his seat. Regan Fisher, lying at his feet, did not move. As is typical of those killed by strychnine, his eyes were wide open and his face was frozen in a smile-like expression, completely still.

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He left the room, not through the door where the servants were waiting, but through the balcony. He easily climbed down to the ground using the balcony railing, window columns, and wall decorations.

It was a clear, cool autumn night with a full moon. A chilly wind blew from somewhere. He stopped and waited for the wind to die down, not even noticing his neatly combed hair and suit being disheveled by the wind. It was a 7-year-old habit of his not to just let the wind pass by.

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As he left the castle, the carriage prepared by Pharrell was waiting. As soon as he got in, the coachman asked, “Did you kill him?”

He took off the tailcoat suit and put on the coat prepared on the seat. He messed up his hair with his hands, making it into a disheveled mess. “You can check in tomorrow’s 《

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Daily McEwan》, on the front page.”

After the confirmation, the coachman handed him a sleeping pill. Pharrell didn’t allow him to be awake anywhere other than the site of the mission, meaning he had to be asleep on the carriage both coming to and leaving McEwan Castle.

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He didn’t know the reason. It might be because they were afraid he would try to escape during the trip, or because they thought he would be tired from carrying out the mission. Or maybe not. Regardless of the reason, he had to obey absolutely.

The sleeping pill took effect quickly. As his consciousness began to fade, he habitually checked his watch. 11:58. Looking at the large tilted hands between 11 and 12, he recalled a voice. The voice of the man who said he would go out to get some air when the big hand pointed to 11, and would come back before the big hand pointed to 12, and then they would go to sleep.

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Would the man be asleep too?

In Bunch, the capital, the place with everything, where there were theaters and a parliament and libraries and art galleries and a museum, the place where he became so happy that he didn’t need to dream anymore, was the man also sleeping there now?

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In the place he could never go, how happy would the man be sleeping right now?

His consciousness faded. A frightening blackness of sleep rushed to him.

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***

The past 7 years could be divided into two periods. The time when he didn’t know the fact that he shouldn’t meet the man again, and the time when he did know.

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The former was the first year, and the latter was the following 6 years.

During the first year, Pharrell taught him how to precisely eliminate the targets. He taught him about firearms, vital points, and how wolfsbane causes cardiac arrest, monkshood causes asphyxiation, and belladonna causes cardiac arrest.

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Next, he taught him common sense, like the fact that it was the year 1907, and that Prince Lewellyn, the heir to the throne, was born nearly 20 years ago. When he said “Lewellyn? Lewellyn is my name,” he was slapped hard. Pharrell, an extreme royalist, found it blasphemous for him to claim such a name.

Pharrell said he had no name. He argued that he had the name Lewellyn, which Shavonne had given him, but when Pharrell snorted and pointed out that no one would call him that since Shavonne was gone forever, he became as silent as a mute.

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That’s how he became “he.” He couldn’t be Lewellyn anymore.

Towards the end of the first year, Pharrell corrected him when he saw visions of Shavonne’s back disappearing in the black dust of the oven, the darkness of the closet, and the grayish surface of the empty barrel. At first, Pharrell thought it would improve with time, but his mental delusions only worsened as time passed.

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Pharrell said Shavonne had left. That it was time to let go of Shavonne. He said he didn’t want to let go. He said he wanted to become a person to meet Shavonne again.

— That’s a bad idea.

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Pharrell said.

— Why do you think Shavonne left you?

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— Be-because he hated me.

— Why do you think Shavonne hated you?

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— …

— Because he was unhappy.

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— …

— Because he was unhappy being with you.

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— …

— Now Shavonne is perfectly happy. He’s become a famous writer. Everyone in Bunch knows the name Shavonne. He’s treated as an expert writer, living in a three-story mansion on the elite Rewood Street, which is the crème de la crème of Bunch. He has a family. He has a fiancée and a cat named Clara because he doesn’t like dogs. He has a ton of friends – a doctor, a pianist, a florist boy, a photographer, a journalist… He even has parties every Friday. I hear he’s also loaded with money, overflowing with it, you might say.

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— …

— If you go to him, he’ll be unhappy.

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— …

— If you interfere with his life, he’ll be unhappy.

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— …

— It doesn’t matter if you’re a dog or a person, it’s because it’s you. It’s because it’s you what makes Shavonne unhappy.

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— …

— Do you want to make Shavonne unhappy?

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Making Shavonne unhappy.

Bleeding transparent blood, his smile changed to a straight line. The temperature fluctuated wildly, becoming chilly then warm.

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…He didn’t want that. Not at all.

He shook his head.

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When he said that if he couldn’t meet Shavonne, there was no reason for him to become a person, and that he should just be disposed of, Pharrell said,

— I want you to become a person.

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— But…

He didn’t want to become a person. Why do I have to become a person if I can’t meet Shavonne? He was about to say that, but Pharrell spoke first.

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— I’ll make sure Shavonne is happy forever.

— …

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— If you become a person for me.

His ears perked up. He looked up at Pharrell blankly. Pharrell’s words were sweet.

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— This is the only way you can make Shavonne happy.

— …

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— What do you think? Don’t you want to?

He wanted to. Extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely wanted to. He wanted to make the present Shavonne happy as much as he had made the past Shavonne unhappy. He knew that was the only atonement and the only way of loving allowed to him.

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— I want to.

He answered.

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After that day, he no longer called Shavonne by his name. He called him “the man.” He thought he couldn’t and shouldn’t dare to utter that name, the name of the one he had made unhappy.

With the man there, he was able to endure the suffocating stench of death when he strangled the first target, stabbed the second target, and shot the third target. With the man there, he was able to get used to being drenched in the hot, sticky, and bloody aftermath. He became numb to it.

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With the man there, he was able to live.

And perhaps, just perhaps, with the man there, he was unable to die.

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That’s how the 7 years passed. That’s how the 2,826 days passed. That’s how the large clock hand tilted from 11 to 12 for 2,826 times.

Three days after carrying out the Regan Fisher mission and returning to the penitentiary, he learned that everything had been a lie.

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***

He just went to ask for a sleeping pill because he couldn’t sleep.

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— …There’s no… other way…

Pharrell’s voice seeped through the small gap in the closed door. He didn’t eavesdrop on purpose. He just had good hearing. If he could hear the voices beyond the iron door that was as thick as an adult’s forearm, it was only natural that he could hear the voices through the thin wooden door.

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Pharrell’s voice became clearer.

“…The military secrets Fisher leaked involve us, so I have no choice. If by any chance the existence of the penitentiary becomes widely known, Bosch will definitely turn against our country.”

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“But Bosch is a neutral country…”

“Just because they say they are neutral doesn’t mean they actually are, you know? If that snobbish parliament Bosch has sides with the powerful ones, using fancy words like human rights and such, instead of us, we will definitely lose the war, clearly. It’s not just Bosch turning its back on us, it’s the entire United Nations that Bosch has on its back turning their back on us.”

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Such incomprehensible words. He was about to go into the room to ask for the sleeping pill. That is, if he hadn’t heard Pharrell’s voice.

“The penitentiary will close.”

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His body froze.

“No, it would be more accurate to say it has already been closed. A royal decree to immediately close the penitentiary was issued ten days ago. We have to evacuate the penitentiary. As clean as if not a single person has been here in nearly 30 years, except for the Caucasians(*nomadic people).”

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“What about the records?”

“They all have to be erased. Not a single one can be left behind.”

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“Even the dog?”

“Are you asking because you don’t know? The dog has to be the top priority for disposal.”

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Penitentiary. Closed. Royal decree. Dog. Disposal. Although he understood the meaning, these unfamiliar words floated in his head. Then, the unfamiliar man hesitated but asked,

“Should we also stop keeping track of Shavonne?”

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The unfamiliar man carelessly uttered that name, a name that he could never have dared to speak again. Blue veins protruded on the hand gripping the doorknob.

“Shavonne? Who was that again?”

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As he lowered his head, his breath suddenly stopped.

Pharrell doesn’t remember Shavonne?

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— I want you to become a person.

— But…

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— I’ll make sure Shavonne is happy forever.

The Pharrell who had said that, doesn’t remember Shavonne?

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“Ah, you mean that idiot?”

Pharrell’s voice sharply rose. He was rooted to the spot. His face, as well as the hand gripping the doorknob, turned deathly pale.

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“Is he still alive? Well, I guess he has to be if there’s still a job for you, Frasier. I can’t believe he hasn’t committed suicide yet. If I were him, I would have killed myself immediately after becoming a mentally ill pauper with no memory. Well, is he doing well? Does he remember anything?”

“I don’t know what your criteria on ‘doing well’ is. He has no family. He’s had lovers, but he always broke up with them after a short while. As for friends… his relationships with other people are all pretty much nonexistent.”

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“What about money? Doesn’t he do some kind of ghostwriting or something? Has he made some money at least?”

“Well, if he made money, he wouldn’t be living in that crumbling tenement on Ira Street, would he?”

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“Ira Street? My goodness. If I were him, I would have hanged myself from one of the giant trees in Rewood Square rather than live on Ira Street. How dreadful.”

“…There seems to be nothing wrong with his memory.”

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He felt an urge to burst into the room. He wanted to grab the two men and ask, while strangling them, stabbing them, or pointing a gun at them, what this was all about.

Shavonne was supposed to be perfectly happy. He was supposed to be a famous writer known to everyone in Bunch, treated as an expert writer living in a three-story mansion on Rewood Street.

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He was supposed to have a family, a fiancée, and a cat named Clara. He was supposed to have friends – a doctor, a pianist, a florist boy, a photographer, a journalist, and more. He was supposed to be so rich he was ‘overflowing with it’, as they said. He was supposed to be happy because he, Lewellyn, was gone, because he, Lewellyn, didn’t go meet him.

So what’s all this?

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“Two days ago, a spy ship from Bosch is said to have set sail. The Bosch spy is already on his way to monitor me. It seems Bosch believes that if they dig into me, they can find evidence that the rumor of the penitentiary is true.”

“What are you going to do?”

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“I’ve decided to go into hiding. You’ll be in charge of wrapping things up neatly until then.”

“…So that’s why you called me here.”

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“Don’t you like it? The king has promised to reward all the senior officials of the penitentiary once everything has settled down. Of course, you and I are included. If your cleanup is neat enough that I don’t even need to get involved, I’ll even whisper your name especially to the king.”

“Thank you.”

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A sound followed, as if straightening his collar.

“Don’t forget that I’m counting on you.”

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The strange man didn’t answer.

The sound of Pharrell’s footsteps approaching signaled his departure with a goodbye, saying he was going to the royal decree. Lewellyn snapped out of it. Should I strangle Pharrell? Stab him? Aim a gun at him? Or grab him by the collar and interrogate him…? In an instant, countless possibilities flashed through his mind.

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But he did not choose any of them. What he chose was to return to his solitary confinement cell. He decided to wait until Pharrell could no longer leave. Of course, he didn’t just meekly return. He stole a dagger, the only item he was allowed to possess.

The door to the solitary cell was opened a week after Pharrell left for the royal decree. By then, the penitentiary was already completely empty. There were no guards, no inmates. The only things there were him, who was about to be disposed of, and three men who had come to dispose of him.

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The three men immediately shoved Pharrell’s order at him as soon as the door opened. ‘Proceed to the incinerator,’ it read. If he had not overheard the conversation between Pharrell and the nameless man, he would have followed without asking, without arguing, without being curious.

Because the deal 7 years ago had made him swear absolute obedience to the warden of Lute Penitentiary, not to bite the guards, and not to do any unauthorized acts. But the situation was different now. The deal itself was a deception. Since Pharrell had not kept his promise, he had no reason to keep his.

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He pretended to follow the three men, then strangled one, stabbed two, and threw their bodies into the incinerator. The smell of burning bodies was not as bad as he had expected. Smelling that, he slowly recalled the faces of Pharrell, the Superintendent. the Vice Warden and the other guards.

Pharrell had thought of him as too much of an idiot. He was going to show Pharrell that he was not an idiot, that he was not a dog, that he was a person even if Pharrell didn’t call him one. And he was going to go find the only person who knew he was a person. Yes, the only one who knew Lewellyn was a person.

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— When dogs get hurt, they lick their wounds. What was it? Dogs have some kind of bacteria or something in their saliva that heals wounds.

— When people get hurt, they clean the wounds either with water or by applying disinfectant. If that doesn’t work, they wipe it with a clean cloth.

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— You didn’t lick your wounds.

— You wiped your wounds with a clean cloth.

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Recalling that voice, Lewellyn murmured, Shavonne. It had been Llewellyn’s world without a moment’s absence, and he murmured that name which he couldn’t utter aloud.

It was a winter night. A clear night without stars. The cold air touched his cheeks. Lewellyn changed into the clothes of the men he had killed, choosing the one with the least blood. It was dark at night, and the clothes were black, so the blood was barely visible. In the vast penitentiary where only the ashes of the three corpses remained, the penitentiary where Lewellyn was born and raised, the penitentiary that had bound Lewellyn’s entire life, Lewellyn escaped.

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The wind blew. It was towards Bunch. There was no longer any reason why he couldn’t go there.

At 3:16 a.m. on a Christmas morning when the entire streets of South Bunch were covered in white snow, Lewellyn went to Shavonne’s tenement.

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What was worse, killing a man, or killing a man and taking his money and possessions?

The sunset was fading outside the window. At Lewellyn’s feet by the window stood Ed Boe’s corpse.

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The tilted head didn’t budge an inch. The eyes were wide open, revealing the turned-up whites, and the face was devoid of color, without so much as a quiver. The only thing moving was the blood gushing up from Ed Boe’s neck, precisely from the slit Adam’s apple. The floor was a sea of blood. The blood that had flowed down along the grooves of the wooden floor had soaked the carpet bright red.

In contrast to the bloodstained Ed Boe, Lewellyn was clean from head to toe. With the exception of a few drops of blood splattered on his face. Tsk. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he briefly clicked his tongue. The blade of the knife he was holding gleamed a bright red, reflecting the sunset.

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How many times had Ed Boe worked on Lewellyn with the red-hot poker at Lute Penitentiary? Slowly racking his memory, he couldn’t recall. The only thing he remembered was that Ed Boe had taught him how to slit a throat. If Lewellyn failed to learn quickly, a red-hot poker would come flying at his body.

Lewellyn didn’t like the red-hot poker. When the red-hot poker seared his flesh, it hurt, a wound would open, and pus and blood would soon form, but Shavonne, who used to clean it, was no longer by his side.

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As a result, Lewellyn learned quickly. In about a month after Ed Boe started teaching him, in the blink of an eye, he had mastered the art of slitting a person’s throat. He also learned the trick of not getting covered in blood, as Ed Boe explained that if he got blood on him during a mission, it would draw unnecessary attention during his escape.

In retrospect, Ed Boe was a good teacher. Thanks to what Ed Boe taught him, today Lewellyn slit Ed Boe’s throat in the blink of an eye. He didn’t get covered in blood either, so he wouldn’t draw unnecessary attention when he fled.

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He opened the bag he had prepared and pushed Ed Boe’s body into it. Due to his small stature, the body fit in the bag with plenty of room to spare. Lewellyn looked around Ed Boe’s house. It was a nice house. A fireplace, a wall cabinet with gold-threaded curtains, a cuckoo clock that popped out when the hour struck…

Suddenly, Shavonne’s house came to mind. The public housing on Ira Street that he had peeked through the keyhole. The cramped room, the low ceiling, the moldy walls and the shabby floor flashed through his mind, and Lewellyn’s lower lip was bitten involuntarily.

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It should have been Shavonne, not Ed Boe, who lived here. Shavonne should have become a famous writer known to all Bunch, living with a cat named Clara, hosting parties every Friday, and perhaps, just perhaps… living with Lewellyn.

He knew he couldn’t just uproot this house and stuff it in the bag like transplanting a tree. Instead, Lewellyn slowly examined Ed Boe’s belongings. The fireplace, the wall cabinet with gold-threaded curtains, and the cuckoo clock that popped out when the hour struck were imprinted on his retina and then erased.

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Is it worse to kill a person or to kill a person and take their possessions?

He had no desire to be good. Lewellyn knew he was not a good being.

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During his solitary confinement, Lewellyn had attacked the guards without distinction. After being released from solitary, he eliminated the targets as ordered, by knife, gun, hands, poison, or noose. And from now on, he would kill all the guards who had worked on him and Shavonne.

Lewellyn was irredeemably evil. The choice he had was not whether to be good or evil, but how to be evil.

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If someone saw him, they would label him a murderer or a thief. Suddenly, an erratic laughter burst out. The erratic laughter soon turned into uproarious laughter. He laughed until tears welled up in his eyes. Just as he was about to stop laughing, he would start again at the thought.

A robber. The idea that Lewellyn was a cheap robber! He was so happy. Lewellyn finally realized that he had become a person. A dog couldn’t be a murderer even if it wanted to be, couldn’t be a robber even if it wanted to be, but Lewellyn, the Lewellyn who had become a person, could so easily become a murderer and a robber.

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There was no reason to hesitate in choosing. Shortly after, Lewellyn left Ed Boe’s house. The bag in his hand contained money and Ed Boe’s corpse, killed in the way Ed Boe had taught him. And before that Christmas passed, a body was found two blocks away from the apartment building on Ira Street in South Bunch where Shavonne lived.

Lewellyn displayed Ed Boe’s body in a way that made it impossible to identify.

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The police were puzzled. Why displaying it? He could have safely disposed of it in the woods, a river, or an abandoned factory, but displaying it? The police concluded that it was the self-aggrandizement of a serial killer. There were also rumors among the public that it was a mockery of the police’s incompetence. Of course, Lewellyn’s motive for displaying the body was neither self-aggrandizement nor mockery. It was simply to strangle the guards.

After Lute Penitentiary was closed, the guards scattered throughout the country. They may not know yet that their colleagues are dying one by one. But they will soon find out. Seeing the familiar scars on the unidentified body, the familiar tattoos, the familiar bald head and the large mole on the back of the neck. The fear that the next victim may be themselves will overwhelm them. They will tremble and spend each day in terror.

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Yes, the terror that had enveloped Lewellyn’s entire life.

Of course, there was a way to kill without giving them a chance to feel fear, but Lewellyn didn’t do that. It was because Lewellyn, the serial killer, was a hunter, not a butcher. The quality required for a hunter was patience. Lewellyn wanted to work on them the same way he had been treated.

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And there was one more purpose for the use of the bodies.

To awaken Shavonne’s lost memories.

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He could have said, “You came to Lute Penitentiary as a guard 8 years ago and left 7 years ago. We met then and did all sorts of things.” But Lewellyn didn’t. He didn’t want to be treated like a crazy person by Shavonne, who had no memory.

Lewellyn’s task was to show Shavonne clues so that he could regain his own memory. He was not sure whether it would work, since he didn’t know how the penitentiary had erased Shavonne’s memory.

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― Hello…?

― Anyway, there’s no dog as handsome as you. I’m serious.

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― You need to get better. Instead of just letting the words go in one ear and out the other, you need to listen carefully.

― … ’round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words `DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters’… You’re not listening, are you?

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― I know. I guess it’s because I like you.

― Do you want to do a face?

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That smile. That voice.

Life was hard for everyone, but there was something in every living person that prevented them from giving up on life. For some, it was desire, for others guilt, for others responsibility, for others hope. For Lewellyn, it was memory. The memories Shavonne gave him kept him alive. Even if Shavonne himself remembered nothing.

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Now he wished he would remember. He wanted Shavonne to know that Shavonne was the reason Lewellyn lived, the reason Lewellyn became a person. He wanted Shavonne to know that Shavonne was Lewellyn’s desire, guilt, responsibility, and hope.

He wanted all of this so that Lewellyn’s humble and noble love could finally come to fruition.

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***

A body was found two blocks away from the public housing on Ira Street in South Bunch, where Shavonne lived, before the new year. It was the body of a prison guard.

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Then, the new year arrived.

It was 1915. The first year Lewellyn had lived as a human being. Memories had accumulated by another year. It had been 8 to 9 years since he met Shavonne, and 7 to 8 years since he parted with Shavonne. He had moved into Ira Public Housing, room 302, last year, or more precisely, about 2 weeks ago.

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For 2 weeks, Lewellyn hadn’t seen Shavonne’s face even once. The only thing he could see was the notes he had diligently posted on the door being torn off time and time again.

Lewellyn was sad. He was tempted to break down the door and barge in, just like when he was locked up in the solitary cell at the penitentiary. Shavonne was just holed up at home, not going out at all. It’s not that he never went out, but he only went out when Lewellyn was gone (mostly when Lewellyn was out killing or preparing for it), so it was as good as not going out at all.

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That’s why, the day after the note saying ‘You’re so mean >:(‘ was torn to shreds, he hadn’t expected to see Shavonne.

That day, it was around sunset. Just as Lewellyn was about to enter the Ira public housing, carrying a bundle of onions he had just bought, he spotted someone in the distance, arguing with the janitor.

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But that voice…

“Shit, I just threw it away because it had trash stuck to it, and now you’re making me pay a fine? Aren’t you being too much?”

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Lewellyn, who had been about to casually enter the Ira public housing, stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t move an inch, as if he were nailed down.

It was a familiar voice. Compared to 8 years ago, it had become much thinner and sharper, but it was definitely a familiar voice. The timbre, the way the ends of words rose, the peculiar pronunciation of the ‘t’s – it matched the voice that Lewellyn remembered.

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It was Shavonne.

He thought he would immediately shout “Shavonne!” and rush over to hug and kiss him the first time he saw him, but he couldn’t. Lewellyn couldn’t move from his spot. All he could do was blankly stare at Shavonne’s back.

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The sunset was stretching out longer now. It was the sunset of winter.

***

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Lewellyn sat on the staircase of the apartment building from 8 in the morning until 9:30 at night, waiting for Shavonne to come out. He sat on the steps above and below, but the step where 303 was directly visible was the best spot.

At 8 in the morning, the picnic basket Lewellyn had brought out was piled high with onions with their skins, and by 9:30 at night, they were all neatly peeled, revealing their smooth white insides.

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It was the same that day. It was a snowy winter night at 9 o’clock. As usual, he was sitting on the stairwell peeling onions, when he heard the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Looking back, it was a young man, soaked from head to shoulder from walking in the snow without an umbrella.

The young man quickly headed towards 303. “Shavonne. Are you in there? Shavonne!” he shouted, knocking loudly on the door. Lewellyn’s eyes narrowed coldly as he watched. Who is he? Who’s the person calling Shavonne so casually²?

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Who is this, and why is Shavonne opening the door for him?

Thud. The 303 door opened. The young man’s back was blocking the view, so Lewellyn couldn’t see Shavonne’s face. All he could see was Shavonne’s right hand grasping the doorframe. That hand. It was much rougher and paler than Lewellyn remembered, calloused all over, but it was the same hand that had taught him how to hold a pen.

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Lewellyn took a deep breath. His stilled heart slowly, very slowly, started beating again. It was a faint flutter.

“What the. You look good to me, so why didn’t you call me?” The young man blurted out. “Don’t even try to make an excuse about being busy.

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“Who is not busy? Do I look like I’m just being lazy?”

“Why are you holding the door so hard? Is there someone inside?”

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The young man’s voice sounded as distant as a voice from a faraway world. The only thing that was clear was the sound from Shavonne. His breathing. The faint tapping of his fingertips on the doorframe, as if barely suppressing his irritation. And his voice.

“I didn’t contact you because you’d mess up my mental health like right now.”

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“What?” The young man asked.

“Even if you think it’s an excuse, I’m busy, and I’m going to be busy. I’m afraid of you breaking inside like last summer, and I can’t bear you yelling at me like a baby or babbling that the house is a mess. That’s why the door is like this. I don’t want you to force me to have sex like last summer because then my condition will hit rock bottom. Ah, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s very, very annoying to be tied to you under the name of being your lover.”

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“Shavonne…” The young man said.

“What.”

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“What’s wrong with you? If you keep acting like this, I’ll think you want to break up with me.”

“That is exactly what I want.”

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“What?” The young man asked.

“I’m serious.”

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The young man’s face flushed red. He seemed to want to say something, but clamped his mouth shut and stepped back. His back was revealed, like a curtain being drawn.

Shavonne’s face came into his view.

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It had changed. Compared to how Lewellyn remembered him 8 years ago, he was pale and thin, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, his nose and tightly closed lips looked tense. His dark hair lacked vitality, and his green eyes had darkened.

But despite everything, it was Shavonne.

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“…”

His heart was pounding.

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After the young man left, Shavonne was about to go back inside. Lewellyn, who had been unable to move and could only stare at Shavonne, finally snapped out of it. The thought that he must not let Shavonne go in, that he absolutely must not let Shavonne disappear like this, suddenly pierced his consciousness.

His lips twitched. They opened and closed silently with shallow breaths escaping between them. His head was dizzy and his stomach churned. It was a familiar sensation. Like the time when he was only allowed to whimper when he was a dog, the same tension would well up before attempting even the shortest or simplest of words.

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But he had to speak. Calmly, as if nothing was wrong, he had to speak like a real person. His mouth was trembling. The heart that had just been pounding was now thumping erratically. Reality was slipping away. Drifting thoughts swirled in his head. If he ate wolfsbane, he would suffocate, if he swallowed monkshood, he would die of respiratory failure, if he took digitalis, he would go blind, and if he saw Shavonne, his heart would explode. And then…

Lewellyn opened his mouth.

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“Your boyfriend?”

Shavonne’s feet stopped as he turned to go into the house.

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It was night. The muffled sound of falling snowflakes could be seen drifting across Ira Street beyond the corridor. The howling of the icy wind sounded distant, like a sound from far away.

Shavonne turned around. His world, his salvation, his god was looking at him. Lewellyn looked at Shavonne, who seemed to hesitate for a moment, only to then straighten his head decisively, shrug his shoulders, and answer.

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“Until just now.”

And so the two met again.

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